Conquests of a Well Bred Prostitute
by FreedomOftheSeas
Summary: The ideas of every poet spring from his various muses. John Wilmot was known for his drunkenness, vivacious conversation, & lust for fornication. This series of one-shots depicts these exploits from his perspective. Rated NC17 for sex/slash/vulgarity
1. Chapter 1: Abduction

**A/N**: This is me having way too much fun with John Wilmot's personality. I always thought that if _The Libertine _had more narration from him, the movie itself would have been so much more entertaining.

A special thanks goes out to Nytd for her wonderful beta services :)

Enjoy!

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_**Conquests of a Well-Bred Prostitute**_

_**Chapter 1: Abduction **_

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_Tower of London: 18 May 1665_

The raw afternoons in London were the rawest, and the dense fog was the densest. The muddy streets were muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction. The Tower of London was quite possibly the largest prick in the land from here to William Wycherley's estate in Shewsberry. It was an appropriate ornament that stood fully erect for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation as our glorious King Charles would most certainly boast.

My existence is basically composed of very few truths. The first truth being that, I have committed a heinous crime, and it is a crime that clings to me, causing a perpetual state of mind where I live it over and over again. I see abduction in my dreams, and long for it.

There exists, at the bottom of all abasement and misfortune, a second truth, or perhaps, a last extreme where writing and dramatics are huddled in a desperate struggle. It was a place where passionate theatrics are waged partly by cunning and partly by violence. Though sick and ferocious, the attacks serve a purpose in degrading the prevailing social order with the pin-pricks of vice and the hammer-blows of judges and juries. She was the playhouse, my dearest of all loves who possessed the wicked vices of a blushing new whore; she was a perverse muse that set my soul ablaze.

At times, I bite the edges of my quill, beating myself out of spite as my muse calls me a fool, prompting me to look into my heart and write, for I have not written a suitable play in years.

Unlike me, many of you who have been thrown into the pinhole of London's most grandiose of pricks have accepted the situation of imprisonment and will probably die there and rot like cabbages in the sun. I, however, find myself within the fog on the Essex marshes and flowing through Kentish heights, because my mind permits me so. I will not grant them the pleasure of seeing my early demise.

Oh, how pleased they all would be to receive word from Sir John Robinson about my lifeless cabbaged corpse lying beneath a faint sliver of sunlight.

Dead!

Dead, your Majesty.

Dead, my lords and gentlemen, and more die around us, every day!

The court adores my wit, yet their longing to see me fall causes their knees to quiver with delight beneath finely embroidered petticoats and cannions, finding death far more enticing than life.

Heed my words; I will haunt them in their sleep, and their cunts will grow wet for my specter, so much so, that ladies of propriety would leave their Lords for the devil's apparition – that is a guarantee.

My ghost will travel without warning.

Some days, I will find myself creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs, lying out on the yards and hovering over the rigging of great ship. I will be the great fog that droops upon the gunwales of barges and small boats.

On my better mornings, I will be the fog in the eyes and throats of ancient London pensioners, brushing my fingers by the bosoms of their naïve wards.

Perhaps, today I shall be the fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful King, who cannot even satisfy his wife or his mistresses, let alone his country.

I am the fog that is everywhere - the fog that travels up the river, where I can flow again among green grasses of long forgotten meadows. With an exhale, I will be the fog that travels down the river, where I can roll deified among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a beautiful, but dirty city.

However, I find that another truth takes its course when I am summoned to the King's court, where charming common wisdom had it that the idea of death is more enduring than its incarnation, the concept more perfect than any conceptualization, that spirit is superior to substance. Thus, it would follow that the soul is invincible, while its physical form - the rotten cabbage - is restricted, secular and destined to become the dust beneath your boots, if we haven't become dust already.

Buffoonery.

As much as I loath the art of proper socializing, I loath the idea of solitude and domesticity that comes with living in the country substantially more than one might anticipate. I cannot breathe in the country, and all the spirits in the land cannot inebriate me long enough to forget that I bore of my company far too quickly.

The secret of reaping the greatest fruitfulness from the country comes from becoming the light upon the dark benighted way. The same light that brought my dear Elizabeth Malet to supper at Whitehall manor with Mrs. Stewart, and now each time I see her; she's got a secret smile, and she uses it just for me.

---

Elizabeth Malet refused me.

Allow me to rephrase. Elizabeth Malet refused me until I took the liberty of taking the matter into my own hands, which ended up being the very same hands that made her melt with pleasure.

In spite of this, I will not boast, for now.

Instead, I will explain that you cannot expect to play the game of seduction without the proper beliefs. Not if you want to play seduction well and reap the benefits. So, this is point number one:

You need the right beliefs to play the game.

What ill figure does a woman make with all the charms of her beauty and sprightliness of her wit along with all her good humor and insinuating address?

None, actually.

Elizabeth could have been the best economist in the world, along with the most entertaining in conversation. If she remitted her guard, abate in the severity of her caution and strictness of her virtue, and neglected those methods which were necessary to keep her not only from a crime, but from the very suspicion of one, she wouldn't be half as intriguing.

In court, she spoke of her suitors, and how marriage, notwithstanding all the loose talk of the town along with the satyrs of the ancient or modern pretenders of wit, will never lose its due praise from judicious persons.

Elizabeth had much to say against the wickedness of others and imprudence of too many, and often provoked her own wonder and scorn along indignation and pity, yet she continued to think that marriage, in general, was too sacred to be treated with disrespect. Furthermore, she believed in the institution of the heavens, and marriage was the only honorable way of continuing mankind, and far be it from us to think there could have been a better route than _His_ infinite wisdom.

Heavenly Father, forgive my dear Elizabeth Malet for the carnal trespasses she is about to commit, and help her virtue survive through the night, for the devil beckons to her.

I can recall her delicate alabaster skin, shining beneath the pale shafts of moonlight from my coach window. Cheeks warm against mine as my fingers were greased, working between her legs. Her breasts were rapidly swelling to a flaccid over-ripeness in humid eroticism as she loosened her fragrant bodice, letting her rich attire rustle to her knees.

There is no more exquisite voluptuously thrilling sight than that of a beautifully formed woman sitting naked with my hand between her clasped thighs. Her cunt was hidden by her smooth legs, and only indicated by the shade from the curls of her motte.

Then as her thighs gently opened for me and the gap in the bottom of her belly opened slightly with them, the swell of her lips showed, her delicate clitoris disclosed, and all was fringed with crisp curly hair, whilst around it all is the smooth ivory flesh of belly and thighs.

_Orgasmique._

By her power, my sturdy stallion was unbuttoned, and with her hands she produced naked, stiff, and erect flesh. What a wonderful device, one she had never seen before, and which, for the interest my own seat of pleasure, she began to take furiously to it, and I stared at her with all the eyes I had. Her eagerness was a most unexpected sight.

I highly underestimated her desire, and how she longed to experience a man's cock growing inside her as it ploughed her, stretching her.

Three times I had almost lost myself in supreme rapture, and by the third time Elizabeth was madly fond of me, declaring I was a prodigy of the flesh, and that my movements were extraordinary for a man of my status and nature. I said twice that I _might_ be quite extraordinary, but that night was naught but the beginning, although in my own mind I was proud of my performance.

For the third time she shuddered, shouting out obscenities and cursing saints as she experienced the heat of my seed coursing from her cunt, to her heart, to her brain.

I would imagine that from that day forward, Elizabeth would be on her hands and knees, but not in prayer. Instead, she would whisper her sins amidst a halfhearted confession, finding herself at the mercy of a far greater symbol of divinity, and she will beg for abduction.

God can do nothing for her now.

---


	2. Chapter 2: The Magnificent Miss Roberts

**A/N**: This is me, having too much fun again :)

A special thanks goes out to Nytd, for loving John Wilmot as much as I do!

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_**Chapter 2: The Magnificent Miss Roberts**_

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_The Whorehouse: 24 June 1668_

I found out soon enough that there were many inconveniences in married life, but was there any condition without inconveniences?

Perhaps, I may indulge licentiousness and give myself to the conduct of wild and ungoverned desires when I am out of the country, or indeed out of any other inducement.

However, if marriage was to be such a blessed state of being, why are there are so few happy marriages?

Now in answering this, we must not wonder how so few have succeeded, instead we should be rather surprised to find so many who do, considering how imprudently men engage, the motives they act by, and the very strange conduct we observe throughout the streets of our fair London town.

I was no different in my engagements, and I will profess that at some point every man needs the whorehouse, for sex did not only take place between supper and daybreak.

No. I'd like to think that sex takes place between now and whenever I want it to take place, preferably with no predetermined time or length of duration.

At the present, pleasure was dominated by race of beauties that carried themselves almost like another species. These women were like new trees, new lopped and pruned, and would certainly sprout up and flourish with greater heads than before when they succumb to the power of a man's pintle, sans the prescriptive motions of routine regularity.

Oh, how I long for a knowledgeable strumpet of London. I long for a large breasted beauty adorned with a low-necked bodice, her hair tucked behind her ears to reveal an excess of rouge and patches. I long for a vulgar and promiscuous woman who flouted the essence of propriety.

The name of Jane Roberts has spread perhaps as far as her legs could stretch, and one cannot help but wish that so much wit and beauty, so much politeness and address, accompanied and supported by more valuable and lasting qualities could exist in a single form.

One could also desire that she could clear the imputations laid upon her, and that she herself should say enough in her actions to show she was unfortunate, but she had not said as much as necessary to prove herself discreet.

Those who did not pity her ill fortune must be highly ill-natured, but at the same time I must blame her conduct, and regret that a treasure such as herself should fall into the hands of those who were not worthy of it, nor knew how to value and improve it.

However, I should be the very last man to complain of her conduct, seeing that I have reaped from the benefits of her scandalous behavior.

The gentry would go so far as to say that her profession was conspicuously and outrageously bad or reprehensible. However, I would say that she was such an exceptional whore and well above average or surpassing what is common or usual or expected of a woman of her nature.

Pity I had to share her with Charles and the rest of London.

If she were born a woman of propriety, I believe that she would have been capable of being a great ornament to her family, a blessing to the age she lived in, and by the end of her days would only serve (to say no worse) as an unhappy widow who points out the dangers of an ill education and unequal marriage.

My actions are not to be justified, nor the actions of my dear Jane, she will not be excused, especially by my wife. It is no question that the acts we committed were considered most criminal, having no sense, or the abuse of a liberal portion. Society would have no qualms with determining who was to be pitied the most, for she allowed my cock rightful passage and must therefore suffer more and be the more lamented.

Though, I'd imagine she did not mind, seeing that I compensated her far more for her to give a damn.

The whorehouse drained her of her life, and soon turned her into a disagreeable person, finding herself with a temper when she realized that folly and ignorance tyrannize over wit and sense. Jane was cursed to be contradicted in every thing she did or said, and bore down not by reason of authority while being denied her most innocent desires, for no other cause but the will and pleasure of an absolute Lord and Master.

On many occasions, she confessed to me that she longed for the normalcy of marriage, but she was cursed to a life that she could no longer break from, and the commands she despised but at the same time she obeyed were a misery that no one could comprehend, but those who have felt it.

Make of this what you will, but I found her desire of normalcy strangely arousing.

I admit that at the time of her confessions, I was not of sane mind or spirit. My mind was sullied with drink and dart of love laden from the wanton desire of her cunt.

For a time, I thought that the life of a whore was more prosperous than that of an obedient housewife. My reasoning for this was strictly based on experience. Imagine, there I was, lying upon the foul floor of a whorehouse with the sweat from Jane's bosom dripping down upon my face, finding that I could barely recuperate between orgasms to pick myself up to go home to my wife, who slept alone in our bed.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Although, that did not stop me from advising her that a woman who seeks consolation for the yearning of domesticity from the gaieties of a court, whether it be from gaming to courtship, from rambling to conversational adventures, or all the amusements that her company can afford, may plaster up the sore she possessed in her heart, but would never heal it. Nay, instead it would grow into something far worse.

It would fester beyond the possibility of a cure.

Yet she justifies the injuries her patrons have done her, and disregards whatever other good qualities she may have. She may be innocent, but she can never prove she is so, and she will be silenced by the society that shunned her.

She can make no apologies for her actions, simply because apologies will not be accepted. The world will hardly allow a woman to say anything well, unless as she borrows it from man. At that point, she had borrowed the husbands of far too many women, reaching into the breeches of too many men, and ingested countless seeds of life to mutter the slightest word of atonement.

It certainly would have been a mouthful. All pun intended.

Many would argue that if Jane's education made a right improvement of her wit and sense, she would not have found herself seeking relief by such imprudent, and one might say_ scandalous_ methods such as the fucking in dark alleyways with various spruce cavaliers.

I would argue the contrary, in light of the fact that her sex was so deliciously decadent, and how down right laughable it was that society seems to find its voice only when it speaks with a tongue laced with envy.

They wanted her cunt just as much as I did, yet they wouldn't dare admit it.

Laugh with me, gentlemen.

I promise that you will not feel any better for having such thoughts.

With my appearance reported in so many _objectionable _places, many purported my actions as distasteful – to frequently bed such a childish and ridiculous woman as herself. It was with such ill-natured amusement that I devoured her, but that was the greatest part of the adventures I had inside her womb.

To _them_, my company was always objectionable. With that being said, why should I act in a manner that would disappoint my critics?

Laugh with me, gentlemen.

I promise I will not disappoint.

Only let me allow you to be informed. To whom would the poor fatherless maids and widows who have lost their masters owe subjection?

It cannot be to all men.

Do they then fall as strays, to the first who finds them?

Of course, by the dictum of men and the conduct of women one would think so, and one would only hope to come across a stray, preferably one like Jane Roberts, if given the opportunity.

I, sometimes, had an odd feeling when leaving Jane's presence, as if demons were creeping after me in the darkness of night, and had tied a string somewhere in my guts that tightened and knotted itself to a festering orb of regret.

To my despair, the orb grows more painful by the day, and it is something most dreadful, until I am full of drink, and can no longer feel a damn thing.

Do not misconstrue my words, for Elizabeth Malet is not dead to me, but may her faults die with her, may there be no more occasions given for our adventures, and if there is, let the woman be more wise and good than to take them!

My good Lord, do not let her take them, for I will pass my pain onto her and then I will no longer be able to crawl to her at night and plead for her forgiveness.

Let us continue on for now. Let us see from whence the misconduct proceeds, and see if it can be prevented, for certainly men _may_ be very happy in a stifled married state.

It is our own fault if we are at anytime otherwise.

---


	3. Chapter 3: My Dear Mistress Has a Heart

_**Chapter 3 – My Dear Mistress Has a Heart**_

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_Adderbury Estate: 29 June 1680_

_-  
_

Curiosity, is sometimes an occasion of good, but too frequently of mischief, disturbing both my own and my neighbor's repose. Curiosity caused me to read into the thought of an afternoon that would not be quite thrown away in pursuing some reflections that it occasioned. Thus, curiosity led me back to the playhouse I adored after three months of banishment, and into the public eye once more.

The name of Elizabeth Barry was considerable enough to draw the eyes of the curious, but when one remembers what a noise she stirred in the playhouse, one would regret such a curious eye.

I did not.

On stage, she was exposed to critical judgment – her voice, intellect, bearing, diction, along with her whole appearance, were open to hungry eyes and scrupulous assessment. The gang found something disgustingly vulnerable about her, but I found that vulnerability to be quite deceptive. Under a mask, most of England's finest and most poised pinheads were undeniably helpless. However, she possessed a different air about her.

She had spirit, and it intrigued me.

As grand schemes of politic were being laid in the balcony of the King himself, I was slightly indisposed from his musings.

What vast designs brought are about by the cardinal who would bore such politic? From what I gathered, the King's measures were being concocted to spread word of the _grandeur_ of our nation of which he was being transplanted, and that he wanted the power and the inclination to establish his own lineage to gain the right of the throne.

What honors and riches he had heaped together in order to do this? None. Parliament no longer humored him a second thought, and neither did his subjects. His brother is a Catholic and shall have his head on a stake before he will ever step foot near the grand English throne. One can easily see why he has become so defeated, going so far as to ask me to make grand speeches for him on his behalf.

The people would listen to me, so Charles says.

What a whimsical thought, your Majesty. The House of Stuart would be proud.

May the bishops blesseth his soul in private Catholic services, so he thinks himself a happy man, imagining his house will endure forever, and he will established his name and family. However, how wise so ever he may be in other respects, in this he acts he is no better than the ignorant and the foolish. He carries nothing away with him when he dies and neither will his pomp and glory descend as he intended.

Elizabeth Barry was already dead to her audience, may her faults die with her as well, just as the ones of my wife. God help them all.

My wife, a woman of sense, one would think, should take little satisfaction in the cringes and courtship of her adorers, even when she is single, but it is criminal for a wife to admit such pleasure. Interested persons may call it gallantry, but with the modest and discreet it is likely to have a harder name, or else gallantry will pass for a scandalous thing, not to be allowed among virtuous ladies.

That brings me to this question. What qualifications should I look for in a spouse?

'_What will she bring?_' seems to be the universal retort for such a query.

How many acres? Or how much ready coin? Not that these are altogether unnecessary questions, for marriage without a compensation is not only a bare subsistence, but even more a handsome and plentiful _provision_.

They, who marry for _love_, as they call it, and as I once called it, have found time enough to repent their rash folly. Whatever fine speeches that are made in the heat of passion between pricks and cunts foster no real kindness between those who can agree to make each other miserable.

God forbid if I were ever able to hold a play in my estate in Adderbury, or an ill natured jest, the dismissing of a servant, and the imposing domestics, or frequently changing them. These are all sufficient reasons to authorize a man leaving his wife, and breaking from the strongest bonds to expose himself to temptations and injuries from the wicked.

Few men have so much goodness as to bring themselves to a liking of what they loathed, merely because it was our duty.

What follows, then?

There was no notion of _contentment_ at home, so it is sought elsewhere, and the fortune so unjustly obtained, has carelessly been squandered.

That is why I went against the better judgment of my peers and took on Mrs. B – a spirited pupil. Under my wing, she possessed all of the promise of a blushing new whore paired with the skills of an evocative actress.

She lit up the stage when I was through with her – I would know. The fifty guineas in my pocket have proved it so.

But a little time wears off all the uneasiness, and puts Mrs. Barry's doubts in possession of pleasures, which till now she has unkindly been kept a stranger to. Affliction, the sincerest friend, the frankest monitor, the best instructor, and indeed the only useful school that women are ever put to, rouses her understanding, opens her eyes, fixes her attention, and diffuses such a light, that it was as much a joy to her mind as it was to mine.

Over and over again, I criticize her.

Again.

Again.

_Again._

Yet, she still asks if something is wrong, and her mistress is horrified by my authority over her.

Now, allow me to deviate from the matter at hand to explain to you the definition of _horrified_, if I haven't made myself clear already.

Do you see my face?

Fight the urge to run away, for I will come after you – that is a promise.

Do you _really_ see it?

Look at it more closely, and try not to distort your eyes at the sight of my disfigurement. Did you find that there was something so charming and yet, so repulsive about my face? Of course you did. Though, I know it's not meant too seriously and should not be overburdened with critical anxieties, but on the other hand, its very frivolity was part of what was so disturbing about it. What was more disturbing was that my mind was likewise being crippled as well.

Or so they thought.

My inimitable pleasure-loving mood was sustained not only by health, mirth, and wine, but far more importantly, by wealth. My life always consists of bought pleasures, in part, if not entirely. The one thing that might well stay the fury of my penis would be pennilessness.

When I speak, I enumerate cunts, which are either already on my payroll or available for temporary purchase. It is my belief that the designation of any penetrable orifice is a cunt, because all orifices will be regarded as being qualitatively identical and interchangeable. Thus, a boy, like Billy Downs, can have a cunt in this sense, and it makes him no less or more satisfactorily fuckable than any woman. No sexual partner consists of anything but a cunt - her hands, her feet, and even her very look are all possibilities. Thus, the purposes of these cunts are none other than to receive an invasive prick.

The salacious acts I committed with Mrs. B could not even be retold in the whorehouse or the inn, for they would pine for it, begging me for a showing, even if I'm no actor. Though, I think it's best if they stayed as far away as they could.

I try to make sure that actresses understand what it means to have a permanent record of them with a man's penis in their mouth, but even with that, the whores of London still envied my bond with Mrs. B.

In our beautiful connection, Mrs. B's cunt was a sacred space, and my prick was a torch to light my way through her folds of soft pink flesh. She was delighted at the sight of my pintle, worshiping it as if it were her savior, and showing me exactly how much she enjoyed it with moans of pleasure escaping from her lips. Soon, she could not help but find her hands along the creases of my buttocks, while her tongue and lips slid along my shaft. I would pause for a moment, looking down at her lips as she slowly pulled out to the tip, then let it slide back down her throat once more, increasing her speed as she smiled at me with her eyes.

I had yet to touch her, but she could not hide that fact that she was already moaning my name, even if her groans were subdued by my cock. Of course, I was delighted, but not surprised by her enthusiasm – she knew what I liked, and was not afraid to give it to me, no matter the cost.

So, suppose a man does not marry for money, but falls in love instead? What a heroic action, one that makes a mighty noise in the world, partly because of its rarity, and partly in regard of its extravagancy, and what does his marrying for love amount to?

There are no greater odds between the odds of my marrying for the love of money, or for the love of beauty, but I can guarantee that I will not act according to reason in either case. Nay, my mind governs from my irregular appetite for both at the same time.

Nevertheless, I was blinded, and in love with Mrs. B's wit and passion. This, you might say, was more spiritual and more refined, but it isn't if you examine it to the bottom.

For what was it that nowadays passed under the name of wit? Is it a bitter and ill-natured raillery, a pert repartee, or a confident talking a multitude of words? Some things are wondered at for their ugliness, as well as others for their beauty.

While she flouted and scorned, triumphing in the characters which I created for her, the favors of her person were bestowed in preference upon the men of wealth and title. Yet, it was I that was too foolish to realize that the chief sentimental interest of her career would surface in my sterile unrewarded years of vassalage to her. My frenetic letters of worship to her betrayed my genius, humbling me in the dust of a ghastly end – an end that made me pathetic.

Little did I know it that Mrs. B would play a game familiar through the ages to one of her type, promising me that she was not a cold worldly soul devoted only to herself as she encouraged me just enough to keep me in her servitude. In a word, she used my passion for her own advancement. I was thoroughly beguiled, and kept on hoping, toiling, and putting my genius on the line to create characters for her in the playhouse, while pouring out my faithful dog's heart in letters to confess my devotion to her, and I squandered my earnings in order to live in her circle.

Mrs. B will forever defile my memory, causing others to overlook my finer years of life where I loomed the filthiest streets of our fair London town. Some days, I would disguise myself as a porter, tracking down shopkeeper's wives and servant maids for seduction. I could laugh at how many women are willing to give themselves to a man worthy of his reputation.

Now I am nothing, no one of great importance, just the ghost of an Earl that once was. Women no longer pined for me with wet cunts and hardened nipples when they saw me coming their way.

No, now they run from me, and I can still hear their screams.

After all these years, my dear Georgey _still_ thinks I'm endearing, even with all the evidence that points to the contrary. He also thought that I was rather foolish or rash for stealing a second glance in the direction of an unattractive whore. Perhaps, the real reason for his speculation was because he would have preferred if I stole a second glance at _him_. I know he wouldn't have been able to resist if the opportunity presented itself, and so it might, but that is an entirely different matter. One that I will speak of at a later time, if you so wished to hear it.

It was true that the stupid would like her in five years time, but I loved her from the beginning.

Though, I had no knowledge that she would quickly turn into a mercenary prostituting dame, but I'm frittered with love because of her madness.

What a sparkling reputation, Mrs. B.

Just as dazzling as mine, I must say.

Bravo, my love.

---

**A/N**: In letters written to Elizabeth Barry by John Wilmot, John constantly refers to Elizabeth as 'Mrs. B.'

_My Dear Mistress Has a Heart_ – The title of a poem written by John Wilmot himself (1 April 1647 – 26 July 1680).

Thanks Nytd! :)


	4. Chapter 4: You Will Die of This Company

**A/N**: Haven't written a chapter for this story in quite some time, so I really thought it was time to give my Wilmot muse another whirl!

This chapter is deliciously slash. Please proceed with caution.

My eternal gratitude goes out to Nytd, for her beta goodness.

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**Chapter 4 – You Will Die of This Company**

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Few men have so much goodness as to bring themselves to liking what they loathed merely because it is their duty to like. We marry with indifference, to please friends or increase fortune. Indifference quickly and mercilessly proceeds to monotonous aversion, so much so that even the kindness and complaisance of the poor abused wife shall only serve to increase such aversion as time goes on.

Affliction is my beloved wife's sincerest friend, her frankest monitor, her best instructor, and indeed the only useful school that the woman was ever put to, as it not only informs her better of this world, but entertains her more than I, for I am crowded by men of wit.

Time has taught her well enough. She now distinguishes between truth and appearances, between solid and apparent good, has discovered the instability of marriage, and won't be deceived by the notion of relying on it. While most flatter her for her fortune, true admirers encourage her virtue, accounting it no little blessing to be tied to a leech, who only hangs upon her for their own advantage.

But a little time wears off all the uneasiness, and puts a man such as myself, in possession of certain thoughts of foreign pleasures, which until now, I have unkindly been kept a stranger to. The savory scent of salt-swollen cunt from a woman more concerned with reputation than hygiene rendered me incapable of sustaining an erection.

I roused my understanding, opened my eyes, and fix my attention to the only possible conclusion.

I am a sexual carnival, the only issue of a Cavalier father and a Puritan mother.

Thus, it comes as no surprise that my pintle could be so significant that it defines all the elements in the world around it. Everything is either a cunt, can be turned into a cunt, or bares no interest to me whatsoever.

Which brings me to a more unnatural act of uncleanness: s_odomy_, or so they call it. Some believe this sin was an abuse of sex against nature, and that such filthiness was only to be found amongst the beasts, for God hath ordained that only male and female should couple together, and not female and female, nor male and male.

Some go on to say that a sodomite should be placed in a tub, and have liquid and burning brimstone poured down upon him till he dies in a way which Heaven proves as punishment of such an unnatural sin. Or, if it may be thought of as a more speedy way to suppress sodomy, let every man guilty of this sin have his genitals cut off, and burnt by the common hangman.

This said by the same sort of men who make women drink claret until they piss white wine.

Good God! How I am overcome with shame and confusion! When I appear before the tribunal and judgment seat of Heaven, all secrets exposed and revealed, and a just punishment inflicted by an enraged pinhead, without any regard to quality or dignity, I will laugh with all the assurance imaginable, plead my guilt, and hope that my confession causes sweat to drip down their temples.

Perhaps it is because of my past dealings, that I'm more inclined to demonstrate my belief that a partner's personality and body could merely be reduced to a cunt, and used for solely for personal pleasure. Neither female nor male is of any particular importance except insofar as she or he can generate said pleasure.

To think, someone who could have been no better than the common linkboy was game for some pretty diversion for others like me.

---

London knew what I was, what I had done, and what I continue to do. It was the boy's own fault; he had it coming.

The boy I speak of, of course, is none other than Billy Downs himself, a mutual acquaintance of the _Merry Gang_ that would later die of my company. He was young, far, _far_ too young; a tall, svelte, broad-shouldered beauty with thick lips and rough, tousled hair as black as a panther's pelt.

How dare he smile at me from across a darkened room, smacking his pretty wet lips, only to saunter off into the study without so much as a word?

He had it coming.

That afternoon in my study, I found myself pouring the wine as I pressed my shoulder against his arm, leaning in on him. He looked up and instantly pulled away.

I expected that; a good fuck wouldn't let himself be known so easily.

I brought the glass to my nose and inhaled deeply.

I could tell that I left him with a heart beating so fast that if anyone so happened to be nearby, they might have heard it. So, he continued on, sipping his wine like the gentry that he was, hands trembling from my presence.

Until he gave in.

I am a fine Eau de Barbade, in flesh and blood, one that intoxicates spirits without vitiating taste, and so much superior to common draught in every particular way that one need not blush for being drunk by my presence. Those who've fucked me languish for their daily dose, which they have been so long used to, just as Charles did for his three daily flasks of claret.

The first time, he trembled at the thought of taking all of me, of giving all of himself. And I knew that was exactly what he was going to be doing.

For a moment, he lifted his head, and stared down at me with those wild green eyes, and I enjoyed the way his thick black hair fell around his savage face; the way his muscles flexed in his shoulders and arms; the perspiration that trailed down from his neck. I needed to taste it.

I lapped at it with my tongue, until his own lips traveled down to feather over my hard nipples, raking his teeth over one and then the other.

Another thing I gave him freely: my pleasure. In a way, Billy Downs didn't have to worry about how to please me, he poured the last few years of loneliness and dire need of satisfaction into every touch.

I sipped at my wine as he sucked greedily at my cock head; his hands stroking my shaft with silken heat. His mouth was like ecstatic fire licking over flesh.

I couldn't help but laugh a little as my cock throbbed in anticipation. "Such a fine gentleman you turned out to be." I caressed his cheek. "Oh yes, a fine one, indeed."

He didn't like that, I could tell. Nevertheless, he couldn't keep from sobbing from the pleasure; the feel of my cock penetrating him slowly. I was barely buried inside him when he flung his head back at the incredible pleasure racing through him.

Nothing mattered but the pleasure.

The boy's love for my vigorous and wanton cock was so powerful that our rendezvous followed each other with astonishing rapidity. We were frequently shut up together for hours at a time; it seemed impossible to calm the violence of our passions, for even in public, and in presence of the female domestics, he caressed me in the most lascivious manner. I didn't too much care for that.

In the long list which I could produce of my lovers, if I'd followed sequentially, I could prove that I was no sooner disgusted with women, then I had recourse to that of men. There was scarcely a man about court who admitted that he had adopted a taste for his own sex.

Billy knew this.

He had it coming.

Having retired to my private rooms one evening, and having found myself at liberty, I rang the bell, and Billy, who was in waiting, made his appearance. The moment he entered the room, I took him in my arms and kissed him with rapture.

He broke away with annoyance and began to pace fiercely around the room.

"You once told me I'd grown into quite a fine English gentleman," he spat. "I do a hundred different things a day and like none of them. I yawn in the faces of the women I talk to, eat and drink with men I have no friendship for, live in the drawing room, flatter awkwardly, rally worse, and in short, make none of my actions conducive to the pleasure or profit either of myself or anybody else. You are in part responsible for this."

I took into consideration what he had said, eyeing his poise scrupulously. "If you regretted less what you have lost, you should be less indifferent to what you possess." I found a sort of pleasure in scolding him. "Consequently, you would be better pleased with yourself, and of course, more industrious to please others."

But as things now stood, he looked upon me as his dwelling, feeling the inconveniences of these other animals as I did those of Italian inns, hated all their filth, and would no more make friends of the one, than I would my home of the other.

"I must bid you adieu. It's three o'clock and I am quite undressed." Downs smiled at that, so did I. "I expect the Lords any moment for dinner."

Downs stiffened as I walked by, catching me by the arm. "You are to your company, just what you are to your food: you can sit down to what I am sure you could never hunger after. You cannot swallow what does not please your taste and digest what one would imagine must have made anybody sick."

"Don't imagine I am modest enough to think myself such a sort of dish, for it is the least of my thoughts," I replied sharply.

"If I could, I would not only to have you always at my table, but would eat of no other."

I turned to him, swirling the wine in my glass as I pursed my lips.

Downs whispered through clenched teeth. "My dear, dear creature, I am yours."

I brushed my lips lightly upon his and took his mouth again, breaking away rather abruptly. "For now."


	5. Chapter 5: Death Do Us Part

**A/N**: It's been awhile!

_Death Do Us Part_

_~o~_

_Woodstock, England: July 26, 1680_

If pride and self-conceit kept a man of good quality from growing superior, it will, for certain, confirm and harden the wicked in his crimes, and furthermore, set him up for a wit, that is, according to modern acceptation.

I was paid a great compliment once, which I will engrave on my headstone for all of England's pinheads to read:

Here lies the rotten, cabbaged-corpse of John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester!

Here lies the fiend, abominable in mind and body, his frame less hideous - if possible - than the spirit that animates it!

Here lies the fiend most natural and peculiar. A genius of wit in a cruel age, removed from the modern world!

I_ am_ the fiend who rallies at all that is serious, a contemnor of the priests first, and then of the deity himself. For penitence and self-condemnation are what my haughtiness surely cannot bear, and since I have committed my crimes ever so fervently, my guilt should require me to reproach my own mind.

My dearest Society, how unfortunate it must be to realize that I will not be rid of my crimes - though my prick has shriveled and I am compelled by Death himself to _kneel_ and make my peace with heaven - I will not be denied my conquests.

I am prepared to die – horribly and painfully, as it was meant to be.

I feel Death rumbling in my brains; some kinder spirit knocking at my soul, and gently whispering to haste away. My ghost will bait at heaven, and then return to tempt and attack man simply by playing upon idiosyncrasies and weakness; more for my amusement than any other purpose.

Deaf be my ears, and forever blind my eyes. Dumb be my tongue, only to grace my tale with horror! All senses lost!

No mercy shall be bestowed upon the cursed.

We must think what we say, and mean what we profess. Too often we are so blinded by some passion or other, especially love, in which civil and good-natured persons are apt to believe that some are more deserving than others, and to pay them greater respect and kindness than is in strictness due to them. But this is not the present case, for our fine speech-makers doat too much on themselves to have any great passion for another, their eyes are fixed on their own excellence. As if we were meant to view another's good qualities through a magnifying-glass.

They are their own centers, and find a disproportion in every line that does not tend thither.

I know not whether women are allowed to have souls, if they do, perhaps it is not prudent to provoke them too much, least silly as they are, they at last recriminate, and then what polite and well-bred prostitute could forbear taking that lawful pleasure?

And indeed, men are not humane, yet too wise to venture. Generous men possess too much bravery; he is too just and too good to assault a defenseless cunt, and if he did inveigh against women, it was only to do them service.

My neglected wife, I write these reflections to you, hiding a thousand sorrows woven; hiding a thousand sleepless nights born unto a sea of what was and what is unattainable. You will never have a sense of honor, for though I am generous, I am also evil.

Provided you do not prefer honor before duty; you can never be too careful in securing your character not only from the suspicion of a crime, but even from the shadow of indiscretion. As I lay dying, you found it well worth your while to renounce the most entertaining, and what some perhaps would call the most "improving company", rather than give the world a just occasion to stare at the very Appearance of Evil that is your husband.

Preserve your distance then, beautiful one. Keep out of the reach of danger, fly if you would be safe, be sure to be always on reserve - modest and discreet, for your caution cannot be too great, nor your foresight reach too far. There's nothing - no redemption; no justice after I perish, for justice and injustice are administered by the foolish King's hands; courts and schools are filled with his sages; men who dispute for truth as well as men who argue against it. Histories are writ by them, recounting each other's great exploits, and have always done so.

You have no reason to be fond of being my wife, or to reckon it a piece of preferment when I had abducted you to be my upper-servant; it is no advantage to you in this world. While I've spent the better part of my existence discovering every cunt between London and York, you married purely to do well - to educate my soul for Heaven. One so truly mortified as to lay aside your own will and desires to pay such an entire submission for life to one whom you cannot be sure will always deserve it.

She is more heroic than all the famous masculine heroes could boast of and suffers a continual martyrdom to bring me peace.

Now, my dearest Mrs. B, this letter is also for you, written out of compassion, out of wonder, again from my heart to eyes I hope are yours - to the reader I so desperately seek to reach.

I wonder if the truth will surface or shall I live the lie I have so elegantly designed?

The point, which I care not to carry further, I will address to you with my own addicts need. I shall, and forever more, kick and claw at death's walls only to huddle in its corners again, exhausted.

My wounds shall heal as I watch the fruits of my labor flourish within you; a labor that taunts and curses me as I sleep – looming over me like a circle of hatred.

We share a bond, common among those who have no light to shed, and no earth to sew upon. Just the ever dubious desire to fly.

Do you anticipate my return?

I know it will not be long now.

I am dying.

I am dying.

_I am dying. _

Oh, when I die, I shall haunt you. My ghost will twine around you and you cannot prevent it.

When summer sings through the sparrow's song upon your favorite tree, my ghost will be there - watching you. I will slither between your skirts, up your thighs, and around your goose-pimpled breasts.

I shall suck your soul from your lips, until I have you inside me.

Then perhaps, you will remember, as you sit in your freedom, of the time I taught you how to fly.

I could not grasp the concept, but neither could you, my love.

Neither could you.

~o~

**_Fin. _**

_This final chapter was inspired by the quote: "__I shall never forgive you for teaching me how to love life." - Libertine (2004)._


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